Giraud Peak lies on the south side of Dusy Basin in Sequoia-Kings Canyon NP. It is some nine miles
from the South Lake TH, and three miles beyond Bishop Pass. I had gotten a good view of it the
previous year when we were climbing Isosceles and Columbine peaks, and had even considered climbing
Giraud that day as well. But it was too late in the day and I was too tired at the time, simply
commenting to Matthew who was with me, "I'll leave it for next year." Next year had arrived.
Michael Graupe had dayhiked it a month earlier, warning me that I may have underestimated its
difficulty - it had taken him 11.5hrs to make the roundtrip visit. This made me a little nervous -
I figured I could shave some time off Michael's, but might still be a hard
day, just when I was expecting something easier.

There was a large and fairly well organized group of 14 folks at the
6a start at the South Lake TH.
We got off on time, starting with a more reasonable pace in the front than we had done the day
before. Our two fastest hikers were ultrarunners Eric L. and Scott M. Eric was somewhat in awe of
Scott as a ranked ultrarunner, and this may have led to Eric pushing himself out front more than
he had the previous days. Eric was the first to reach Bishop Pass in not much more than an hour
and half, and by 7:50a when I showed up, there were a total of five
at the pass.
Ryan showed up a few minutes later to make six. Giraud was seen
to the south rising up at the edge of Dusy Basin, its North Face making an impressive sight.

The six of us (Eric, Scott, Ryan, Glenn, Tom B., and myself) headed over the pass without waiting for
additional participants to join us. I couldn't figure out why Rick wasn't in the front as he
usually is, but came to find out later his ankle was bothering him and he had to move at a slower
pace. Eric started jogging the down the trail as it made a gradual descent on
the west side of Dusy Basin. Nobody was too interested in following him, so he
was soon out of sight. We weren't on
the trail very long, only about 30 minutes,
before it was time to start the cross-country part. Eric was waiting for the
rest of us to catch up, and as a group of six we hiked down towards the
lowpoint of the route where a creek flows through the canyon west of Knapsack
Pass. From a distance it looked like it would be easy crossing
through a series of
small lakes that dotted the creek. I chose a random path between what I
thought were two lakes, but they turned out to be connected as we came across
our watery barrier. A few fortuitously placed rocks looked like they might
allow us to cross without going around either end of the lake, but it wouldn't
be an easy step across, more like doing the triple-jump. It just so happened
that Eric was a triple-jumper in high school and he made
the leap look like
an easy trick. The others followed
in similar fashion, though the results didn't always look quite so slick and
there were a few wet boots as a result. We gathered
on the south side of the lake and took a break to refill water bottles
as this would be the last water for a number of hours to the summit and back.

From the lake, the going started to get tougher. Where we were walking a gentle
downhill grade across alpine meadows from the trail to the lowpoint, we now had
to climb a moderately steep bit of class 2-3
slabs and ledges. Not particularly
difficult at all, but if you're unused to such terrain it can get a bit
overwhelming. Ryan, one of the youngest participants at 21yrs, was on his
first day with the Challenge and had so far been quite happy to be in the lead
group. But now he started to flag as it dawned on him what cross-country was
all about. Neither myself nor the others knew how much or how little experience
Ryan had had on such terrain, and it wasn't evident to us that he was getting
a bit over his head. We regrouped at the top of the ridge where we needed to
then cross to the other side and contour up to a saddle
NE of Giraud. The route we took
is that described in Secor's book, and so far it was fairly easy route-finding
and went just as advertised. While still half a mile from the saddle I started
heading left of the easiest route in order to avoid what looked like a talus
slog up to the saddle. The left side made for some
good scrambling, but it
wasn't trivial and our merry little band started to spread out. Eric, Tom, and
Glenn were a short ways behind me, Scott starting to fall further back, and
Ryan was lost to us altogether.

At the saddle
(actually one of several saddles) on the NE Ridge by 9:40a,
we regrouped
minus Ryan. While waiting for the others to catch up, I wandered over to the
east side of the pass to get a look at the class two route on
that side. Secor
describes dropping some 400ft, nearly down to a lake far below, before
climbing up on the southeast side of Giraud. As a class 2 route, that didn't
seem like much fun at all.
The NE Ridge itself was described as class 4 in Roper's
book which preceeded Secor's guidebook. For some reason Secor dropped it in his
book, which had several of us curious. It certainly looked like an
interesting route from below, with several knife-edged sections evident along
the route. Eric, Glenn, and myself seemed most eager to tackle the class 4
route so it was not surprising that we ended up in front vying with each other
for the route-finding.
Getting from one saddle to the next was easy enough over a
small highpoint, then the class 3-4 began in earnest. Scurrying up the
wonderful granite blocks, flakes, and ledges, three of us were looking to find
the best way around a large obstacle on the ridge. Low down on the west side
I walked out on ledges that ended in cliffs before I could get onto the ridge
again. Seeing me backing up, Eric and Glenn climbed higher to the top of the
structure only to find themselves looking down 35ft of walls. By the time I
could get atop to have a look myself, they were already scrambling down and
around the east side, trying as best as they could to avoid dropping too far
down from the ridgeline. The two of them did a fine job with some class 4
downclimbing, with Glenn discovering a key ledge (we dubbed it Glenn's Ledge)
that led around the obstacle and back to the ridge.

Past this point (the route-finding crux), the rest of the ridge had no
route-finding issues, though still some stiff class 4 ahead. Glenn took the
lead for good as we reached the first of the knife-edges,
this one an exposed
but easy dance utilizing some nice horizontal cracks for foot placements on
the steeply sloped west side. Another ten minutes of
fine scrambling led to the second knife-edge,
this one capped by a rock at the far end that was a bit
tricky to bypass. Glenn and Eric chose to
shuffle around and under on the west
side while I preferred a mantle over the top. The latter turned out to be a
bigger struggle than I expected and on the return I chose the shuffle instead.
Shortly after the second knife-edge, we came to a few hundred feet of crummy
talus which we figured marked the end of the excitement. Happily, we misjudged
the summit and found it to be several hundred feet higher above where the talus
slope ended. I say "happily" because those last several hundred feet were on
good rock that extended the enjoyable part of the climbing.

Glenn was atop the summit by 10:40a, myself a few minutes behind him. When Eric
joined us five minutes later we took a
summit shot while perusing the register,
photographing the views, and taking a well-deserved break. Tom continued on the
NE Ridge at a slower pace, reaching the summit as we were about to start down
a few minutes later. We paused to take another
summit shot of the four of us
before continuing, Tom remained to enjoy the summit to himself.
Scott had decided to drop down on the east side some
distance to avoid the spiciest portion of the ridge, and consequently reached
the summit some time after we were gone. Reversing the route, we encountered
other climbers atop the large obstacle as we approached it from the south side.
They were soon identified as Rick and Ryan.
Ryan, feeling out of his element on the approach to the saddle, had waited for
Rick to catch up to him and the two had continued on together.
They had explored the west side and top in much the same fashion as ourselves
earlier. We shouted out instructions for them to reach Glenn's Ledge and
after a bit of difficulty it was located. We chatted briefly as we all met up
on the ledge.
Knowing his limits, Ryan commented that he was "scared as hell
and not afraid to admit it." He also seemed to be having the time of his life,
grateful that he had Rick to help introduce him to his first class 4
scrambling. Curious to know if Glenn's Ledge could be bypassed, I started up
the walls that had intimidated us from above. From below they didn't seem
quite so vertical, and a lovely hand crack beckoned me to find out. It turned
out to be quite easy, maybe class 5.3 or so, and not to be left out,
Glenn followed
a minute later. Balking, Eric went back around via the ledge, but he
didn't lose anytime on us as we all made it down to the start of the route
about the same time.

Resting casually at the saddle were
Ron Hudson and Joyce Lin. Ron was our veteran 61yr-old
Sierra Club climber paying his second visit to Giraud. 21yr-old Joyce was new
to the Challenge and the
scrambling game, but had shown remarkable determination in getting herself this
far. Ron and she had teamed up at Bishop Pass and seemed to be enjoying
themselves as they rested and chatted.
Three of us introduced ourselves to Joyce, chatted
briefly, and gave them a synopsis of the route before continuing our descent. I
laughed as I considered who was the brightest of the four men at that short
meeting - three of us who raced up and down the ridge, or Ron, who took his
time to enjoy the climb and Joyce's delightful company. He was a crafty one,
that Ron.

Rather than return to the first saddle, I chose to head down the saddle where
the two rested, downclimbing a
steep moat alongside a hard snowfield that
clung to the west side of the saddle. Below the snowfield was a fan of
horribly loose scree and talus, and I cautioned Eric and Glenn above me to
wait until I was down and out of the fall line of their inevitable barrage of
debris. Another of our group, Robert Golomb,
was on another snowfield below heading back - he
had reached his comfort limit before getting to the saddle and decided to turn
around. David Wright was spotted in the boulder field, nearly to the top of the
first saddle. I got down to the second snowfield to meet up with Robert while
Glenn and Eric were a few minutes behind and higher on the slope. Robert and I
stopped to chat briefly at the edge of the snow while waiting for Glenn and
Eric to catch up.

Then it happened.

A shout, a scream, some combination had us all stop and stare up at
the saddle.
Something was moving down the hard snowfield at the second saddle. It took only
a fraction of second to recognize it as a body. It slid in an upright position
on its left side, picking up speed as it slid down the 100-150-foot snowfield
inclined at something like 40 degrees. When it reached the end of the snowfield
it hit talus and began tumbling down the loose fan three of us had just
descended a few minutes earlier. It was an awful sight. I wasn't sickened by
it, but an immediate feeling of dread came over me. Without averting my
eyes, and even as the body tumbled lifelessly like a rag doll, I commented to
Robert simply, "This isn't good." I could see that the person was wearing
shorts as they tumbled, and my next thought was that Ron had fallen - I
recalled that he was wearing shorts when we met up. The body had tumbled
about 150ft over the rock and talus before falling to rest around a
corner and out of our view. All of those who watched the fall simply assumed
the person must have died.

Voices were heard screaming from above. Most of the screaming was from Ron, and
it was soon apparent that it must have been Joyce that fell, not Ron. "Joyce
fell! Joyce fell!" he screamed over and over. He may have thought
those of us below were still heading back, not realizing we had witnessed the
tragedy, and was trying to get our attention. He had our attention.
Eric was less
than 50 yards from Joyce's body and immediately ran over towards her. Glenn,
further below did likewise, but having the uphill to contend with, moved
slower. One of my initial thoughts was a complete dread of viewing a mangled
and bloody body up close - I'd never in my life witnessed such an accident.
No one else there had either, for that matter. As Robert and I headed towards
the scene as well, he shouted that he was an ER doctor, and I recall thinking
that was a very good piece of luck. We heard Ron shout about a helicopter,
asking for someone to send for one, about the same time that Eric reached the
body and shouted out "She's alive!" Alot happened in less than thirty
seconds. Robert and I stopped to take it in. We were far from any trailhead or
anyplace where we could get cellphone coverage, a
really long way. A Search and Rescue (SAR) call
was needed to get a helicopter to the scene whether it was for a rescue or a
recovery. As Robert and I were the lowest on the mountain, we were the most
likely candidates to run back. Since Robert was a doctor, I suggested
he should go to the scene while I jetted back to the trail - that would keep
me from having to stomach the view of a mangled body. Robert gave me his
cell phone in case I might be able to get a signal around Bishop Pass. Ron was
shouting for me to make sure and ask everyone on the trail if they had an
emergency radio. And with that, probably only two minutes after the accident, I
was away.

I briefly considered dropping my pack, but I had very little in it - a
lightweight jacket was the biggest item, and then just small items like a
camera,
headlamp, and sunscreen. We had carried no crampons or axe or other gear and it
weighed hardly anything. I didn't even have any food or water on me. I jogged
off across the boulder field heading back to the intermediate ridge and then
down to Dusy Basin. I had never had to run with someone's life on the line,
and it wasn't very comforting position to be in.
If I ran too fast and tripped or twisted an
ankle, that would be a huge mistake and could cost a life. But as I jogged
along trying to be somewhat careful, I had guilt about not putting in enough
effort. What if I took too long and she dies only minutes before rescue? I had
to reassure myself that I could only do the best I could - I had no cape and no
Superman act to turn to.

I had no idea what condition Joyce was in, other than she was alive. How bad
it was I could only imagine, and it was easy to imagine her expiring only
minutes after the fall. Horribly twisted appendages and a broken skull came
readily to mind. Any kind of brain hemorrage or internal injuries or
other serious complications could finish what the initial fall didn't. Out of
water, I stopped when I reached the first lake to fill a water bottle. This
30 second delay would have to be endured as I couldn't see myself running the
rest of the way out without it. I jogged cross-country on a slight uphill
grade to intersect the trail not far from where we left it in the morning. The
accident had ocurred around noon, and it was now 40 minutes later. I started
jogging up the trail but found myself quickly winded. Moving fast across
boulder fields was one thing, but uphill was much more tiring. I realized I was
pretty exhausted from the day's outing, something less noticeable when walking
back as opposed to running. I came across the first of many backpackers on the
Bishop Pass Trail. Realizing that valuable time could be lost explaining the
whole story to each party, I tried to keep it as simple and direct as possible.

"There's been a serious accident - do you happen to have an emergency radio?"

Not surprisingly, the answer came back, "No, I'm sorry I don't." or some
variation. I followed that up with a succint, "Thanks anyway," before jogging
on. Even before I reached Bishop Pass I left half a dozen parties wondering
what the serious accident might be. Pressing on, I grew weaker, a bit dizzy,
then nausea crept in. I stopped to catch my breath, but the nausea overwhelmed
me and I threw up the bit of water I had drunk, then a few dry heaves.
Not having eaten in the last 7hrs, there was no food in my stomach. I felt
better afterwards. Thinking better of jogging, I turned to a fast walk for the
uphill. That worked better for my legs, my stomach, and my head, and it wasn't
much slower than my jog. At 1p I reached Bishop Pass where I came across two
parties taking a breather. I explained the situation again, but again no radio.
One of them had a cell phone, and together we walked over to the north side of
the pass to attempt a call. Not owning a cell phone myself, I stumbled a bit
with Robert's before I figured out how to use it. Though neither of our phones
displayed "Out of Range" indicators, we were unable to make any calls, trying
first 911, then the Operator, then random numbers stored on the phones. No dice.
I thanked the gentleman for his efforts, packed up Robert's phone, and started
off down the trail, resuming the run.

Downhill was of course much easier and I had no more bouts of nausea. Not far
from Bishop Pass I came across a party that indicated they had already heard
about the accident. Huh? How was this possible? I asked for more detail and
was told the accident was near Isosceles Peak. Wrong peak. I began to worry
that there were two accidents and this would add much confusion to efforts to
organize SAR. Other parties I ran into below also said they had heard - two
persons were running down the trail fifteen minutes ahead of me looking for an
emergency radio as well. One person said it was a woman who had been injured,
and I began to think we were down to a single accident again. But how did they
get ahead of me? Near Long Lake I got my answer.

Resting on some rocks by the trail were Scott Hanson and Monique Polumbo, two
of our Challenge party. They had been attempting Mt. Agassiz near Bishop Pass
with others, but turned back before reaching the summit. Near Bishop Pass,
Monique had gotten a call on her FRS radio from Tom Becht. Tom had come down
from Giraud's summit after the accident, but had reclimbed part of the ridge
in order to see if his radio could reach Monique. It did, but only for a short
time, and long enough to provide the location (north side of Giraud, in Dusy
Basin) and her condition - broken arm and head trauma. They had begun jogging
down from Bishop Pass, and like myself, stopped to ask everyone they came
across if they had an emergency radio. At Long Lake they had found a 70yr-old
gentleman with a satellite radio and they had contacted SAR using it. I asked
a lot of questions of the two of them, many of them repeated requests for
information they had just told me. Partly I wanted to make sure the information
given to SAR was accurate and not missing any crucial details, and partly
because I was rather slow on the uptake of information, having jogged myself out
of breath and clear thinking. All that they told me sounded correct. Where the
one party had come up with Isosceles Peak was a mystery, but it wasn't conveyed
to SAR. Resting with Tom and Monique for five minutes or so, I decided to
continue down to the trail - perhaps SAR would be coming to the trailhead and
I could offer additional information.

It was 2:30p by the time I had jogged the remaining distance to South Lake.
There were only empty cars and a few fisherman near the trailhead. I hung
around there a few minutes before I concluded that since the accident was so
far from the trailhead, it was unlikely they would send a team in on foot to
back up a helicopter. Now that SAR was initiated, my thoughts turned to
notification. No one on the Challenge knew Joyce any more than I did, she had
just joined us that day. I might have her emergency contact information back
in Bishop on my website if she had provided it to me. I drove back to the motel
in town and fired up the laptop. I had an email from a Richard Browne, asking
me to contact him about the accident. That was surprising - how did someone
get my name and email address so quick. Using Robert's phone, I called
Richard. He was with SEKI Search and Rescue. I gave him all the information I
could about the location, admitting I had no first hand knowledge on her
condition since I had started back before it was assessed. Richard could give
me very little information about the progress of the SAR, other than it was
underway. He asked me where I
was, asking that I remain there until an Inyo County Sheriff could pay me a
visit. I hung up and looked for Joyce's emergency contact info. Thankfully, she
had provided her father's number and address. I called, but no one was home. I
left a message explaining briefly what happened, that there daughter had had
an accident, was known to still be alive, and provided the SEKI SAR phone
number. I had no idea what Robert's cell phone number was, nor how to find out,
so I couldn't leave a return number to reach me.

Then I waited.

I showered, had a drink, and waited. It was very disconcerting. Here I was
back safe from the accident, showered and resting while eight or nine others
were still in the backcountry waiting and wondering where SAR was. Guilt
permeated almost all my thoughts. Guilt for being the organizer of an event
where someone was seriously injured and might die. What would her parents and
family think? What would the climbing community think? How would I live with
it should she die?

I was outside the motel room when the sheriff drove in. He introduced himself
as Terry Waterbury, deputy sheriff,
and soon set me at ease. He was a member of Inyo County SAR. Terry
explained that
since the accident took place in SEKI NP, it was within the jurisdiction of
SEKI, and essentially "their" rescue. His was solely a supporting role,
collecting information and doing what he could to help, but all the logistical
decisions were theirs to make. He could guess what they might do and what
hospital they might take Joyce to, but could not be certain until he had been
told by SEKI. He produced a binder of topo maps and I showed him the exact
location of the fall and as much detail of the terrain/slope/distances as I
could remember. With me for about 45 minutes, he gave me phone numbers to reach
him and promised to call or stop by when he had more information.

More waiting.

I called SEKI SAR again around 4:30p to see if I could get an update.
None was to
be had. Richard said he'd call me when he got more updates, but it didn't sound
reassuring. Some of the other participants who had gone to easier peaks had
started to return. I filled them in and we all played a game of speculation.
There was just too much unknown at that time to piece together the cause or
outcome of the accident.

As promised, Terry stopped by and gave me more information. They had
flown Joyce out from the scene at 5:30p and was expected to be flown into the
Bishop airport at any time. From there she'd be taken to Northern Inyo
Hospital in Bishop. The good news was that she would certainly live. They
would have to run a battery of tests before they could assess the damage more
accurately. Those participants who had returned to the motel
went out to get dinner around 7p, not surprisingly it was a somber affair.
Afterwards, I drove over to the hospital to see if I could get an update on
Joyce's condition. They were still in the process of stitching up her head
wounds after setting broken bones and cleaning out as much debris as possible.
She had been conscious the entire time during the accident, a good sign indeed.
No internal injuries were found, no brain damage, almost no injuries at all to
her lower torso. The damage consisted mainly of two broken wrists, a broken
chin, and significant superficial damage to the scalp and face. When made aware
I was in the waiting area, she asked to see me. The nurse cautioned me before
going in, but I was almost relieved to see that it wasn't nearly as bad as I
had imagined it would be after witnessing her fall some 300 feet. Having doped
her up for the surgery, Joyce wasn't yet aware of the magnitude of her
accident. She talked about driving out of the hospital the next day and wanted
to know if I could retrieve her car. She wouldn't be driving anywhere anytime
soon, but I could certainly get her car. She gave me very precise details on
where to find her food stashed in a particular bear box near the trailhead.

Returning to the motel, I found Eric had returned. He had been dispatched as
a second runner shortly after I had left, attempting to reach a ranger at a
station deep in LeConte Canyon. He had swiftly descended several thousand feet
to the canyon's bottom, only to find the ranger station locked and deserted.
He had then climbed all the way back up to Bishop Pass and out, over thirty
miles for the day in 12hrs. He and Mike Larkin joined me for a drive up to the
trailhead to retrieve Joyce's food and car. We brought it back to the hospital
and left the keys with Joyce who was still being worked on by the doctors and
nurses there. Fortunately she was the only patient in the ER at the time and
had the full attention of four nurses and a doctor. Back at the motel I
waited up past midnight for the others to return weary from the trailhead.
We exchanged stories, second guessed our decisions, speculating on past and
future events. I planned to return to the hospital the next day to check on
Joyce and meet with her parents who had contacted the hospital and made plans
to drive up from Los Angeles. Joyce's prognosis was good and was likely to be
discharged to her parents' care the next day. We were all relieved to have
avoided a more serious tragedy, somber in the deeper realization of the risks
we take in our mountain endeavors.

Joyce experienced a remarkable recovery in the weeks following the accident.
Recuperating at her parent's home in the Los Angeles area, her facial injuries
began healing quickly, attested to by regular photos or herself
that she posted on the Internet. Undoubtedly, both her young age and postive
outlook on life contributed to this success. Others that witnessed the
accident wrote accounts of the day's events from their own perspectives. If
interested, see reports by
David Wright,
Robert Golumb, and
Eric Lee.